Scions of Nexus by Gregory Mattix

Author:Gregory Mattix [Mattix, Gregory]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2018-04-14T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

“Elyas!” Taren shook his cousin by the shoulder, trying to rouse him, but the big man didn’t reply.

His breathing was shallow and his skin cool and clammy. The quarrel had lodged between two ribs although Taren couldn’t be sure how deep it went. A couple inches, he assumed. Elyas’s tunic and breeches were soaked with blood.

“Ah, damn it! This was my fool plan, and now you’ve paid the price.” He tried to think what Wyat had said about arrow wounds before, for he’d received just about every type of wound a warrior could at some point in his life.

Prepare for heavy bleeding once you remove the shaft, I think he said. That made sense since the arrowhead might tear an even larger exit wound if he pulled it free. As it was, the shaft was plugging the wound and preventing it from bleeding even worse.

Taren used his dagger to cut through Elyas’s tunic so he could lift it away. Blood oozed from the wound, the skin swollen an ugly purple around the wooden shaft, and he assumed there was internal bleeding. He tore a couple strips from the blanket in his pack and wound them around Elyas’s torso as best he could though he had difficulty lifting the big man to get the bandages in place. After several long minutes, he had the bandages wrapping the wound and protruding quarrel as best he could. He briefly wondered when his cousin had put on so much muscle mass—he had to be the size of Wyat in his prime.

If I start a fire, I can cauterize the wound. But that would mean having to cut the quarrel free. He didn’t relish that thought.

One of the horses snorted, and Taren remembered their pursuers weren’t going to be far behind. Already, the footmen were likely searching the woods, and the inquisitors had probably recovered their steeds.

We’ve got to put more distance behind us. It was still only morning. He wanted to keep going a couple more hours if they could manage. Once deep in the forest—he tried not to think about the tales he’d heard about the Fallowin Forest and the hostile elves who called it home—pursuit would be easier to evade.

Taren took a long drink from his water skin then splashed some in Elyas’s face. He sputtered awake, squinting and blinking slowly as he looked around.

“Elyas! Come on—we need to keep going. Can you ride?”

His cousin regarded him for a moment as if he’d sprouted wings. The look of confusion faded, and he looked around. “Where…? What happened?”

Taren breathed a sigh of relief. “Drink some water.” He held the skin up, and Elyas drank deeply. “You took a quarrel to the ribs and fell off your horse. Do you remember?”

Elyas shook his head but gently fingered the bandage. “Hurts like the bloody Abyss.” His breath had a hitch in it that Taren didn’t like.

“Those inquisitors can’t be far behind. Can you ride?”

“Aye. I’m not some bloody milksop nobleman.” Elyas grunted with pain when Taren helped him get to his feet.

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